disparaging dilapidated distances do little to put a self like me at ease. and yet, as i write i imagine no will to the wisp. i even know little of certain meanings of certain words i use regularly. thus, my subconscious knows it makes some kind of sense and yet my conscious self knows nothing or little or maybe everything all at once.
and i am not unconscious, it is true. for, how could i be typing?
even so, it isn’t madness.
even so, it is happiness deranged.
and just as it should be…for the certain things that should be not.